


A Weapon of Choice

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Antivan Crows, Arranged Marriage, Backstory, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drama, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Mary's Past, Non-Graphic Violence, Origin Story, Strong Language, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of life, she is in death. She always has been. And it wasn’t always her choice. Glimpses of the woman who became Mary Morstan, former Crow assassin and now woman on the run.</p>
<p>Rated for “<span class="u">M</span>uch happens to <span class="u">M</span>ary <span class="u">M</span>orstan – and <span class="u">M</span>ost of it isn’t nice. Also – <span class="u">M</span>agnussen.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Weapon of Choice

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: This story may not be for readers who are sensitive to themes of parental abandonment/neglect, child sexual abuse, and miscarriage. I’ve done my best to be sensitive in these scenes and they are fairly non-explicit. If there is anything else I should warn for or that needs improvement in this area, _please_ let me know.**
> 
> _Okay – long fic, long note. (And before you ask – no, I did not plan for it to be this long. Mary, of course, had her own ideas.) When I started this series, I didn’t know whether or not I’d include Mary, deciding to reserve judgment until after I saw Series 3. I was rather pleasantly surprised, honestly. After the revelations about her in_ HLV _…how could I not bring her in? Her (slightly revamped) character and backstory pretty much sprang fully-formed from my subconscious. I’m pleased with how she turned out, and I hope you will be, too. Parts of her story were inspired by Adaia Tabris’s subplot in Eriana10’s excellent novel-length fic_ Just Follow My Lead, _which you can read[here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6002838/1/Just-Follow-My-Lead). Highly recommended for F!Tabris fans and especially fans of F!Tabris/Zevran._  
>  _I wasn’t planning to introduce Mary this soon, or in this story first, but recently she wouldn’t leave me alone until I finally wrote her story down, so here it is. She’ll get an “official” introduction to the rest of the gang eventually, though not in the current plotline. As such, you don’t need to have read any other stories in this series to follow this one, but if you enjoy it, why not give the others a go? :)_  
>  _I’d also like to note that while this story is fairly dark (if the warnings and tags weren’t a tip-off), it’s also sympathetic towards Mary, so there’s no bashing here. She isn’t a bad person, but a lot of bad things made her who she is. If you’d like some idea of what to expect, you can check out the[Antivan Crows’ page](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Antivan_Crows) on the Dragon Age Wiki._  
>  _And before you ask – no, the story has absolutely nothing to do with the Fatboy Slim song of the same title. :P (Though I might suggest watching the video after you've finished the story; I suspect you’ll need the amusement.)_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _As many gaps as my imagination filled in, BioWare and Mofftiss (and friends) deserve the credit for laying the groundwork._

__“_ Media vita in morte sumus. _”__

_(“In the midst of life we are in death.”)_

~ _Unknown, Latin antiphon, circa ~750 C.E._

They ought to have stayed in Ferelden.

She was seven years old when her family moved to Antiva. Her parents met and married in Ferelden, and she – their only child – was born there as well. But her father insisted on returning to the native country he had left behind thirteen years ago, and her Fereldan-born mother eventually agreed. She, of course, had no say in the matter, but if she’d been asked, she would have admitted excitement. At first, anyway.

They moved to Antiva City, into a small house near the docks, where her father worked long days as a longshoreman. Her mother stayed home with her, fretting and idle, clinging to her daughter as her only companion. They visited the market several times a week, and even at her young age she was sure she could feel all eyes on them as they walked, on this mother and child whose coloring and bearing marked them as outsiders – one bound here only by blood, the other by love.

A year passed before her father went to work one day – and took everything he owned with him.

All he left behind was a brief note stating his intention to move in with another woman, and a bare sufficiency of money for his wife and daughter. Her mother cried, then stayed in bed for days, barely touching the food her eight-year-old brought, rolling on her side when the child tried to crawl in with her at night.

And then one night, she found her mother’s bed empty.

Her mother was home the next morning, looking battered and bruised, her eyes swollen and red, her skirt wrinkled and torn as if it had been forced up her legs. But she brushed past her daughter’s clamoring arms and pleading questions, and wordlessly reached for the bottle of amber liquid on the shelf too high for the girl to reach.

The next several nights and mornings were exactly the same. Night and day, the little house by the docks was cold and silent as a tomb.

The girl didn’t know where her mother went at night.

Day by day the food dwindled as the bottles piled up, until the girl opened the cupboard one day and found it empty.

She didn’t know why her mother wouldn't wake up to feed her, a bottle clutched uselessly in the woman's hand as she snored away the dregs of another long night doing Maker-knew-what. All she knew was that she was _hungry_. And so she made the short trip to the market alone.

She wouldn’t beg; she’d seen the panhandlers lining the market streets, seen how little they received for their trouble. No, she planned to acquire supplies more…directly.

No one noticed the small blonde girl ducking and weaving her way through the crowds, as silent as shadow. The few who did paid her little mind or chased her away, forgetting her the moment she left their sight. They were oblivious to the tiny, nimble fingers reaching up to snatch their carelessly dangling coin purses, or a loaf of bread from one stall and an apple from another. No one thought it odd when a stringy-haired, scrappily-dressed child handed over several sovereigns to both the butcher and the fishmonger. And so she returned home with almost more food than she could carry, and no one – no one who _cared_ , at least - was the wiser to her crime spree.

Though she filled her belly that day, a cold and empty feeling pervaded her gut when she thought of what she’d done.

But the hunger won out again once the food was gone. As it did every day when she had to choose between a sated stomach and a clear conscience.

Such was her beginning.

And ultimately, she would think much later, her end as well.

o~O~o

The girl carried on like that for a full year, carefully managing food and money when she had it, and stealing more when she didn't. Her mother’s frequent drunken stupors kept her from questioning her daughter, only preparing the food when _she_ was hungry and when her daughter was able to pull her from her large, cold bed. And so the girl managed to eat every day, just enough to keep from going hungry. She grew, slowly, more in mind than in body.

She knew what she was doing was wrong, that she was taking money and food away from people who rightfully earned it or may have needed it more. But she had no other choice, no other option. She understood both these things, even at her young age, and she would come to understand much more over the course of that year – much more than her mother would ever have taught her, even if she’d been able.

It was the girl’s first lesson in being satisfied, if not content, with little more than her life – the only thing her mother and father ever gave her.

The more she stole, the more she improved. Marks that would have caught her in a glance when she first started now didn't even notice more than a quick brushing-past in the crowd – and then she was gone. She was entirely self-taught, learning from her mistakes and watching those who were better than her, now that she knew just what to look for.

She should never have gotten caught.

_How?_ she would ask herself years later. How had she gotten caught? And perhaps more importantly, _why?_

Maybe she got cocky and careless. Or perhaps she’d simply found her match.

She’d always remember exactly what he looked like, right down to the gold trim on his shirt and the fine leather of his boots, clean and unsullied from the dirt-and-cobble streets. He was finely, though not extravagantly dressed, his raven-black hair only slightly greasy and slicked into a short, neat ponytail, his features bearing a subtle litheness and grace that seemed not quite human; to see him, one might have assumed he was just another low-ranking noble who did not have the means to flaunt his station. But her cutpurse’s eye honed in on him within minutes of her arrival at the market that fateful day. She wove and darted her way through the crowd with the quick efficiency of a hunter creeping up on its prey. Distract, duck, then…

She’d barely touched his coin purse when an iron grip seized her wrist. Startled and scared, but trying not to show it, she looked up into the man’s dark, piercing eyes.

“Well, well.” His gaze bore through her, his crooked smile showing yellowing teeth. “Who do we have here?”

Desperately, she tried to free herself, but the man’s grasp was firm. She could almost feel the bruises forming as she struggled. Apologies begged to be offered, but she could not force them past her lips.

“It takes a brave little thief to rob a Crow master.” He raised a barely-groomed eyebrow at her. “Or a stupid one.”

A…a Crow master? If she weren't being held fast, she might have shrunk back. Even at her age, she’d lived in Antiva long enough to know who the Crows were and what they did. Surely this man wouldn’t…? Not her? All she’d done was try to rob him.

“Still, you had better technique than many people twice your age, little cutpurse.” He seemed to consider her, looking her over carefully, his dark eyes gleaming. “Yes… There's someone I want you to meet.”

The little girl frowned, not at the command but at the word _cutpurse_. She’d never heard it before. Before she could ask, though, the man saw her expression and, not understanding, shook his head impatiently.

“It’s not a request, cutpurse,” he growled, using his free hand to rudely toss a handful of coins at the vendor he'd been speaking to and grab his purchases. He began to walk away, dragging her with him. “You’re coming with me.”

All she could do was follow along helplessly.

o~O~o

It seemed to her they walked for hours, as he pulled her along through the crowds, leaving the marketplace and eventually weaving their way through more side streets she had never even known existed – a left turn here, a right turn there, up this hill, down another one. Antiva City was far bigger than her young mind could comprehend, and the route they were taking was so complex and winding even her companion had to stop once in a while to think about where they were going, granting her a much-needed respite.

At long last, just as the sunset was starting to bleed across the sky, they arrived at an unassuming stone building a short distance up a hill, nearly identical in structure and appearance to just about every other place they had passed. The man smiled, giving her chills, and took her in.

Once they were inside, he finally released her arm, seemingly satisfied that she would not try to escape. Even if she were brave enough to make a break for it, she had no sense of where she was, and would have no chance of making it home before nightfall. No, she wasn’t leaving.

“Follow me,” he said, somewhat redundantly, and she did. They walked through a few corridors, passing only a handful of people on the way – one of whom he handed his packages to with little more than a nod – and she could hear low talking and what sounded like metal clanging behind some of the doors, though she couldn’t make out much more than that.

After, mercifully, only a few more minutes of walking, they arrived at a larger wooden door. The man knocked and announced, “It’s Vasco, Master.” After a muffled response sounded, Vasco opened the door and escorted her in, still leading her.

She looked around, somewhat bewildered. The room was clearly a study, and a well-kept one, piles of books and papers neatly organized on the polished wood shelves and desk. Banners and crests, blood-red and emblazoned with the familiar Crow insignia of feathery black wings shaped to resemble watching eyes, hung from the walls. Behind the desk sat another man, this one dressed more expensively than Vasco but no less intimidating in his manner, his gaze fixing on her the moment he realized she was there. A scroll of parchment was unrolled in front of him, and he was just replacing a goose quill in an inkwell at his right.

“What have you brought here, Vasco?” the man demanded, only briefly looking at the other man before continuing to scrutinize her.

“A recruit, Master Celso.” Vasco's tone was slightly cowed, but confident. “I stopped him pickpocketing me at the market. Even so, his technique was far better than most I’ve seen of market thieves.”

_Him?_ Instinctually, she bit back the protest she was about to voice. Under the stare of the man behind the desk, her intuition quickly paid off.

“A recruit, hm?” Celso continued to study her. After a few moments, he began to chuckle. “Tell me, _pendejo_ , how dim was the light at the market?”

Vasco stared. “What do you mean, Master?”

Celso continued to snicker. “Would you have been so eager to bring me this little thief had you realized he was a she?”

Vasco's head whipped around and the girl felt herself shrinking under his look of shock. She thought she heard him mutter a word she'd heard her father use on occasion, a word her mother had told her never to repeat. Later, she realized his gaffe wasn’t unreasonable; her hair _had_ been cut to practical chin length, and she was small for her age due to her meager diet, dressed in loose-fitting breeches and a shirt she had yet to grow into. And she had not spoken, having no reason to. Anyone could have made the same mistake.

Celso cut in: “It seems your observational skills need work, half-breed.” Vasco tensed at the epithet, but Celso went on without waiting for a response. “Well, it is of little consequence. If you say she had technique, so she did. We will determine its development later. We may seldom train women here, but we will not turn away anyone who shows potential. ‘Seldom’ is not ‘never.’” He motioned to her. “Come closer, little wench.”

She wanted to ask why he called Vasco “half-breed”, but felt it wouldn't be wise. Instead, she obeyed. Once she had approached his desk, his examination intensified, and she felt stripped bare from her toes to the top of her head.

Master Celso extended a hand, and she let him touch her, moving her chin from side to side.

“This one will grow up nicely.” He tilted her face upwards. “Yes…very nicely, I think.” He let go and rested his hands on the desk. “How old are you, wench?”

She spoke at last, her voice quiet, uttering just a single word: “Nine.”

“And your name?”

She told them.

He leaned closer across the desk. “Where are your father and mother, you little cutpurse?”

She frowned, wondering why they weren’t using her name, but the first answer came easily. “My _papá_ is gone.”

“Ah.” Celso nodded. “And your _mamá?_ Do you have one?”

The girl was quiet for a moment, thinking of the woman nursing bottle after bottle in the house by the docks, who’d barely fed her for the past year, who probably wasn’t even wondering why her only daughter hadn’t come home – or even bothered to notice that she had left to begin with.

“No.” She shook her head slowly, firmly, surprised at how easily the almost-lie fell from her lips. “No, I have no _mamá_.”

Celso clapped his hands. “Excellent! Yes, I think you chose wisely, Vasco. She will go far indeed, and at no cost upfront. Well done.”

Vasco nodded, trying to look modest, but the gleam in his eyes, like stars in a black sky, betrayed his smug pride.

Master Celso nodded. “I shall make the necessary preparations for her training. Now, take her to the quarters and leave me. I have much to do.”

“Yes, Master.” Vasco nodded and began escorting the girl out of the room and down the hall, barely allowing her a goodbye.

As they walked briskly, her short legs barely able to keep pace with his stride, she felt her stomach growling, and remembered she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

“Can I have something to eat?” she asked timidly.

Vasco abruptly stopped in his tracks and whirled to face her. “Try again, _carajita_. How much do you want something to eat?”

_Carajita?_ She wasn't being a brat, was she? “Very much!” she protested. Vasco shook his head impatiently.

“I don’t hear it in your voice. _Try again._ ”

For a few terrifying moments as he glared at her, she didn’t understand. Then, as Vasco pulled out a piece of poppy seed cake from his pocket and looked at her meaningfully, she began to comprehend.

“I’m hungry. Please give me that cake,” she said as forcefully as she could manage.

Vasco shook his head, scowling. “I don’t want to just give it to you. I don’t think you want it enough.”

“I want it! Give it to me! _It’s mine!_ ” And now she flew at him, her small arms flailing and grabbing fruitlessly for the cake he was now holding just out of her reach, taunting her without saying a word, seemingly deaf to her growing protests. It wasn’t until she clenched her fists and began pounding his chest – well, as much as she could reach of his chest, anyway – that he finally relented, nodded, and gave her the cake.

She ate it greedily, crumbs spilling down her front. He watched her with some satisfaction, but did not speak until she had finished and looked at him again.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He grunted. “ _Carajita_ , you may have as much to eat as you like… _if_ you are willing to fight for it as you did just now. Are you?”

“Yes!” She nodded, almost too eagerly, not fully understanding what she was saying, or to whom she was saying it. “I will fight for it.”

He chuckled, unpleasantly. “Good. Very good indeed.”

o~O~o

Her quarters were cramped; understandably enough, as she shared them with two dozen other boys around her age, all recent recruits. She could never keep all their names straight, and before long she realized it wasn’t necessary; her bunkmates changed as often as the moon. Though she met a few other girls in passing – few enough to count on one hand, years later – none of them ever shared her quarters.

The Crows started her training, naturally, as a thief. She and several of her bunkmates were assigned to the tutelage of one Master Carlos Augusto Martell. However, he was only Master Carlos to them, and nothing else on pain of death.

“I am here to teach you how to be Crows,” he told them all on their first day of instruction, walking up and down before the row of boys (and girl) aged roughly six to ten. Unusually for a native Antivan, he was pale, lean and angular as a crossbow, with thinning blond hair that had a similar oily sheen. “Understand this, first of all – you are not my students. You are my _assets_. You are here to learn, but I am not your teacher, nor am I your mother or father – I am your _master_. I own each and every one of you. Is that clear?”

“ _Sí_ , Master Carlos,” the children chorused obediently.

He nodded. “Good. And as a good master should, I know _far_ more about you than just your names.” Seeing their expressions of surprise, he just laughed. “Oh, nothing so pedestrian as where you were born, or who your mothers and fathers were – things I suspect most of _you_ don’t even know. No, my knowledge of you is more…personal.” He stopped at the end of the row, standing before an elven boy no older than eight.

“Ah, Nando.” With a smile that made all their skin crawl, he placed a hand on the boy’s head; the girl noticed Nando flinching almost imperceptibly at the contact, and she remembered the sheen of moisture she’d noticed on Master Carlos’s hands as he'd talked. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets, even – were they always wet, then? She bit her lip in sympathy. Master Carlos’s smile only widened as he stroked the boy’s hair – an innocent gesture at a casual glance, but those watching saw how he lingered just a bit longer than necessary, how his slick fingers brushed the roots.

Nando did well at hiding his fear and disgust, but they all still saw it. Including the Master.

Master Carlos shook his head in mock disapproval, clicking his tongue. “Oh, Nando. You haven’t washed your hair since you came here, have you?”

“No, Master,” Nando squeaked out.

Mercifully, Master Carlos removed his hand from the boy’s head – running it over the tips of his pointed ears as he pulled away – and touched a finger to his lips as he studied Nando carefully – no, _leered_ at him. “Well, I suppose it matters not. As with most elves, you have…other features working for you.” His tongue flicked out to taste the fingertip. “You’ve been here several days now – more than enough time to clean and groom yourself properly. We will let it go for now, but when you go out in the field, we need you looking your best…and _prettiest_. Understand?”

“Yes, Master!” Nando nodded so frantically the girl wondered that his head didn't pop off his neck.

“That goes for all of you.” Master Carlos looked at each of them in turn – and the girl would have sworn he looked at her the longest – as one might look over a selection of meats at the market before making a purchase. “Now that I am sure we understand each other…why don’t we begin?”

From that day on, no matter how little soap or water they had between all of them, she and her bunkmates always made sure they were as clean as they could possibly be each morning. Even so, their efforts were fruitless; even when he wasn't inspecting them, Master Carlos always managed to make them feel unclean.

o~O~o

Within days of beginning instruction, the girl quickly realized she did not have to perform brilliantly, only competently. Master Carlos taught each of his students – assets - a different craft; she and two other boys learned thievery, three others scouting, two others spying, and the rest were trained as assassins. After several months, more specialized instructors took on their lessons, with Master Carlos still keeping a watchful eye. Under the education of the more skilled teachers, it became clear to the girl that Master Carlos hadn't been a particular master of any of the crafts he had taught them, his actual abilities belying his rank. Perhaps that was why the Crows had him working as an instructor to begin with, only occasionally being sent out on various tasks, and then always with a more accomplished partner. He never had a regular partner, she noticed.

Still, she had to admit, he was an effective teacher, if for only one reason. She would always remember the first day someone made a mistake.

It was Rogelio – poor, hapless Rogelio, who had never been able to shake his nervousness from the moment he had arrived; rumor was he had been purchased from a slaver, which might have explained his demeanor. One day they had been having an archery lesson, with appropriately-sized shortbows, and after taking much too long to assume the stance, his arrow had missed the mark by a wide margin. Stammering, he had only opened his mouth to apologize when, in one swift motion, Master Carlos reached for his dagger and ran him through.

The others had all stared in shock as the boy slumped forward, lifeless eyes still open, then watched as his small, limp body crumpled to the ground when Master Carlos withdrew his weapon, a vivid stream of red beginning to run from beneath.

The Master looked at them all sternly, his gaze nearly as sharp as his dagger. “Now you all know what happens if you make a mistake. This may be the first time you’ve seen death, but I can assure you it will not be the last. Now,” he barked, “get back to work!”

“ _Sí_ , Master Carlos,” they’d all managed to reply, hoping their fear and shock didn’t show too much, and not one further lapse was made that afternoon. Master Carlos ensured that by leaving Rogelio’s body in plain view until the lesson was over. The scents of death, blood, and even bile – for the master had stabbed his charge in the stomach – lingered in the air the rest of the day, sickening in both odor and familiarity.

From that day on, the girl was careful to never mess up, not with Master Carlos nor with any other instructor. She watched so many of her peers fall like dominos, and was determined to avoid their fate by not aiming higher than she dared.

She might never be great at what she learned. But she would be damned – literally – if she didn’t become very, very good.

o~O~o

She was eleven years old when she realized how good she actually was. At Master Carlos’s directive, she was placed in an assassin lesson with five other boys. “It’s time we try something different with you,” was his only explanation when she asked.

She didn’t press further, but was still curious; up till now she had received only training in thievery, and basic weapons skills. Why the change?

“Now,” the instructor said, breaking into her thoughts, “some of your targets will, naturally, fight back. It is essential that you learn how to manage yourself in a duel. Why don’t we start with…you, girl -” that was her, of course “- and you, Raoul.”

She knew Raoul, but not well, having only spoken to him a handful of times. The two students obediently gathered in the middle of the circle of pupils that had formed. Each of them was handed a wooden sword.

“Raoul,” said the instructor, “you are the target, and she’s trying to kill you. Don’t let her. You’ll duel till first hit. Go!”

And so the two of them sparred for a while, with the instructor – and occasionally, Master Carlos and Master Adan, Raoul’s master – correcting them on form and stance and such when necessary. The other students watched in silence, fascinated. Even when Raoul managed to land the first hit, they were told to go again, then again after round two when she landed the first hit.

“A good start,” the instructor finally said when, after a few rounds, she and Raoul had improved enough that they weren’t just randomly flailing their weapons around and actually came close to disarming each other more than once. “But you can do better than that.”

“Indeed,” Master Carlos cut in, and she saw Master Adan nodding in agreement. “Now, why don’t we make things more… _interesting?_ ”

“Yes, I think so,” the instructor concurred, and before they could ask what he meant, he took their wooden swords away. The next thing she knew, she looked down to find…a dagger shining in her hand.

Raoul had one too, and though they were small enough for the children to manage, it still felt heavy in her grip, yet strangely warm, not cold as she would have expected. Not as cold as the glint of its steel blade would have suggested.

“Have at it, then. First _blood_ this time,” the instructor said, and the masters nodded. None of them bothered to hide their smirks.

There was a single moment of silence, as she and Raoul looked at the daggers, then at each other.

Then everything came in a blur.

She would never be sure who moved first, only that they began sparring as one, using the same techniques they had learned just now and in previous lessons. Within moments the other boys were cheering and shouting their names, but she didn't hear any of it. All the world was to her at that moment was the clanging of their little weapons, the heaving of their breaths, the sounds of their feet as they practically danced across the floor together.

He was light and fast and skilled, landing occasional hits on her but never enough to draw blood. For the rest of her life she would wonder if he had been holding back. But no matter what, by the slightest margin, she was better.

And it was she who drew first blood.

It was a technique she’d come to use many times later in life, when duelling opponents of far greater skill. After ducking his dagger one last time, she struck him once, hard enough to stun him but not enough to draw blood, then stabbed him while he was off-guard.

She felt the dagger sink deep into flesh and bone, saw the blood start to gush around it. It had gone in further than she’d thought.

Too far, she realized in shock as his body sank to the ground, his weight taking her with him as she still held the weapon. She’d stabbed him in the heart.

The room fell silent.

And as she felt her knees give way from exhaustion to collapse on top of him, she looked in his still-open eyes.

_Raoul_. The name burned itself into her memory. As did the brown of his eyes as the light flickered out of them, the scent of eggs and porridge on his breath, the half-whispered mumbles spilling from his barely-moving lips that she would spend the rest of her life and many sleepless nights trying desperately to form into words, to know the last thing he had ever said.

_Raoul_. The name she would scream waking up from nightmares for the rest of her natural life.

She bit back the apology that instinctively leaped to her lips, knowing that even a hint of remorse meant her own death as well.

She could only hope he knew how sorry she was.

Two lives were taken in that instant. The first, of course, was Raoul’s.

The second was that of the girl who wasn’t a killer.

She’d gained a lot of titles over her short life. Orphan, thief, and now murderer. Exactly what was expected of her.

And when it was all over and Raoul's body lay still underneath her, and she stood up bloodied and bruised, she looked up to see Master Carlos nodding with approval. He even offered a rare word of praise. “Keep it up and you will go far indeed. Well done. From now on, no more thief training. You’re going to be an assassin.”

She nodded, numb. And she learned another lesson in that moment.

Until then, she had never known a rise could be simultaneous to a fall.

o~O~o

She wasn’t even allowed to choose which weapon she would like as her primary tool. Of course, every Crow needed to be at least capable of handling swords as well as daggers, shortbows, and maces, but all of them had to specialize in at least one weapon type, to gain deadly proficiency in wielding it. She was relieved when Master Carlos refused to let her take more advanced archery lessons, as she’d just barely squeaked through the basics. Instead, he told her she was going to become a dual-wielder, to learn to use twin daggers as extensions of her own arms.

To that end, he took her and three of her peers to one of the Crows’ smiths to watch daggers being forged. She and the boys stared, fascinated, as the blacksmith heated a piece of steel till it glowed yellow, watched him shape and form the blade according to the Crows’ distinctive style.

Master Carlos tapped all their shoulders and pointed to the metal being worked. “See that? All of you were just like that raw metal when you came here – cold and unformed, all rough edges and jagged shapes, waiting to be molded into something new. What he’s doing now, we are doing to you to make that something. That’s what it takes to make something great – heat, and pressure, and skill.” He looked each of them in the eye. “ _Especially_ pressure. Otherwise the hot metal would just do as it liked with no regard to what the smith wanted. Pressure helps him define what he wants to make. Skill only goes so far as determining the quality of the piece.”

Not knowing how to respond, the four children nodded and said nothing.

By now, the smith had finished the dagger and was dipping it into a bucket of water to cool.

“Each of you will wield a dagger just like this one someday,” Master Carlos murmured as the smith withdrew the dagger, dripping and glistening, from the water. “And you’ll have reached the point where you can because of what we’ve taught you. Remember that. Never forget what we've done for you, all of you.”

The girl nodded with the others, her eyes fixed on the new dagger now resting on the forge. She vaguely recalled seeing other daggers of the same style in the Antivan marketplace; she would later learn that the look became so popular, Antivan smiths began to copy it and sell their blades as the real thing.

How differently would her life have turned out had she not been adopted by the Crows? Would she still be stealing and scavenging for her next meal, or would she have been fed and sheltered just as well, raised into a different profession by a different master?

Perhaps, she thought to herself, it all came out the same in the end. Children grew up, as they must, and took the tools their parents gave them. It was then up to them how they chose to wield them, whether to create or destroy.

At least they were supposed to have the choice.

o~O~o

Eleven was also the age when she learned a great new way to style her hair, after she grew tired of cutting it short. All she had to do was pull it back with one hand, twist the ponytail, then wrap it around clockwise and tuck in the end near the top. Simple, neat, and requiring only deft hands, nothing else.

She didn’t remember the last time she had even a bobby pin.

o~O~o

Master Carlos demanded a great deal of his pupils. Though he was not especially popular among the Crows – an organization where no one could ever truly call anyone _friend –_ he was regarded as a good instructor, largely due to his high standards and rigorous enforcement of consequences for those who fell short of the mark. She always did her best to meet his expectations, if not exceed them, and she knew he noticed. But she never expected praise, and he seldom gave it to her.

When she was twelve, she learned exactly how much he expected of her.

Her first warning came at breakfast one morning. Sitting down, she noticed immediately that her cup of tea looked and smelled slightly different from the others’.

“Master Carlos, what is this?”

He nodded approvingly. “Good eye, girl. From now on, you’re going to be drinking moon tea. One cup every day, no exceptions.”

“Moon tea?” She eyed the clay cup warily.

Her master nodded again, seeing her suspicion. “If you like, your poisons instructor can show you how to prepare it after today’s lesson, and he will even let you try a few different recipes – whatever makes you comfortable with drinking it. Taken daily, it should help with certain…complications of your body.”

Oh. Well, she had complained to the healer about painful cramps last week at her routine checkup; they had been so awful that some days she could hardly walk. Perhaps that was what the tea was for. Dutifully she drank it down, and found she rather liked the taste. To her relief, she did not die or suffer any ill effects. And true to his word, Master Carlos had her instructor teach her how to make it that day, so she could brew her own daily dose with her own carefully guarded supply of herbs.

Drunk daily, the tea did just as she’d believed it would; her next menses was lighter, quicker, and painless. But soon after, she learned Master Carlos had given it to her for a far different purpose.

He came to her bed one night after curfew, when all her bunkmates were either asleep or pretending to be. Despite how cramped the quarters were, he slipped in and around the bunks as silent as shadow. She was half-asleep, scarcely noticing him till he was upon her, shocking her awake as his hands slipped beneath her blanket…

One clammy hand slid between her legs, beginning to part her thighs…another hand covered her mouth, and she tasted salt. She did not know whether it was from his sweat or the blood her teeth were now drawing from her lips.

“Quiet, _coño_ ,” he whispered when she began to struggle. “Do not forget I am your master. I _own_ you. I will do with you as I like.”

She could do nothing but endure, could only lie still as he touched her, as he made her touch him. The most she could do was pray for a swift end.

After much, much too long, he’d had his fill and rose, carelessly pulling the blanket back over her and covering her in his scent, his dampness. Before he left, she heard him pause by the door. After a moment, she heard the slow trickle of urine into the chamber pot there. She buried her head in her pillow, tears leaking from her eyes, and felt him watching her even now.

Finally, he was gone, and she scrambled out of bed, racing to the water jug by the window with her thin blanket in hand. Soaking the corner, she scrubbed between her legs, around her mouth – anywhere he had touched her. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she could still smell him, feel him…hear him, hear his voice telling her he owned her.

She should have known. She _had_ known; she’d seen Master Carlos and a few others slip in during previous nights, while she had lain there pretending to sleep, muffling the sounds with her pillow. None of her bunkmates had been safe. Why had she thought being a girl would make her any different?

Finally, with patches of skin scrubbed raw, she used the blanket to dry her tears – and immediately had to throw it away, the scent of Master Carlos overwhelming. Instead, she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand before returning to her bed, leaving the blanket on the floor.

The next morning, after a sleepless night and before breakfast, she quietly, automatically prepared her tea. She stared at the amber liquid with green leaves floating in it, its warm color and pleasant smell masking the sinister nature of its true purpose.

Taken daily, she guessed, this tea would prevent pregnancy. If she missed a day or somehow became pregnant anyway, this tea would serve as…emergency backup.

Either way, she was protected, from something the boys never had to concern themselves with. In a fashion.

The tea had gone cold by the time she forced herself to drink it, knowing she couldn’t delay any longer. And so she continued drinking it every day like a good girl after the horrors of each night – even when it wasn’t her bed Master Carlos went to – knowing it was ultimately for her own benefit, even if she felt like bringing it right back up afterwards when she thought of what – and who – it was truly meant to help with.

Prepared by her own hands, she knew the tea was never poisoned.

But each cup went down bitterly all the same.

o~O~o

She was fourteen when they began sending her on assignments. There was never much for her to do; most times she served as lookout or looter. After a vaguely-defined training period which seemed to have no real beginning or end, she was handed her first pair of daggers and sent with another, more experienced Crow as his backup assassin.

Even that first kill didn’t stay with her the way Raoul did. She barely even did anything, again; certainly, without her the job might not have been finished, but she hadn’t really killed him. Subsequent kills, however, left no doubt in her mind as to who was responsible.

She wondered when that fact had stopped bothering her. Probably around the time the daggers stopped feeling so heavy in her hands.

o~O~o

She could never remember her very first meeting with the elf. At some point after her recruitment, she’d met him in passing, but hadn’t seen him as anything more than just another good-looking elf, which the Crows were lousy with. They’d trained under different masters, lived in different compounds, and scarcely interacted apart from the occasional meetings between cells.

At twenty-one, she met him properly. Master Carlos had been transferred to another Antivan cell, and she and his other charges had accompanied him. Rumor was that he had tried to blackmail one of the guildmasters and failed, but she seriously doubted that was true. If it were, he wouldn’t merely have been transferred, except perhaps to the storehouse to await unceremonious burial.

As she was settling into her new quarters, admiring her bigger bunk bed (though several of them shared the small space, making it just as crowded as her old quarters had been), she heard a voice behind her.

“ _Perdóname, cariña,_ but it seems you’re in my bed.”

She turned at the sound, ignoring the way it made her stomach jump, and saw the elf leaning casually against the doorway. He tucked a blond braid behind one ear as his hazel eyes watched her carefully, appraisingly.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugged, smiling now. “Of course, if you’d like to stay there, I have no objection.”

“This is your bed?” she asked, ignoring the innuendo.

Surprisingly, her lack of interest did not seem to put him off. “Look under the mattress.”

She did, and saw a pair of leather, fur-lined gloves underneath – forbidden, of course, but if this weren't his bed, he wouldn't have told her to look there. “Oh, _lo siento!_ _This_ must be my bunk, then.” Quickly, she moved to a different bunk across from his, taking her armor with her. Lifting the mattress revealed nothing underneath.

He chuckled. “It’s of no consequence. Though, the existence of those gloves stays just between us, yes?”

“Oh, of course.” She nodded and smiled back at the elf, and told him her name.

He nodded. “I am called Zevran. Zevran Arainai, if we’re being formal, or Zev to my friends.” He raised an eyebrow and gave her what could only be described as a lascivious grin. “Which we could be, if you like.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Just Zevran works for me. Perhaps we can move on to Zev later?”

“Perhaps we can,” he agreed, looking pleased at her acceptance.

They chatted for a bit, about recent lessons they had had, about rumors they had heard about various leaders – all pleasant, innocent topics, with Zevran inserting innuendos where appropriate, and her rolling her eyes or laughing in response. Some of them were actually quite clever, she had to admit. Eventually, the conversation turned to how they had come to join the Crows in the first place.

“Did they pluck you off the streets, same as me?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Actually, I was sold to the Crows when I was seven from a brothel my late mother had worked at.”

“Oh? Which one?” She didn’t know why she was asking, only trying to make conversation.

When he told her the name, she felt the blood drain from her face. “That’s what it was called? That’s down by the docks, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.” He looked at her strangely, confused by her reaction.

“Did – did you happen to know a worker by the name of -” She paused, swallowed hard as her mind raced. It took her several moments to remember her mother’s name.

When she told him, he thought for a minute, then to her astonishment, nodded slowly. “I did, in fact. It was a shame, what became of her.”

“What – what happened?” She bit her lip, worrying, wondering.

He looked at her curiously, but thankfully didn't press further before answering. “Five years ago she was found dead in her room. Considering the number of bottles in and around her quarters, she may have drank herself to death. But also considering the gash on her head that might have come from striking the bedpost as she fell – or was smashed against it – she may have been killed by a client over a pay dispute. It’s difficult to say.”

Zevran pursed his lips as she covered her mouth in shock, too dazed to even cry, to do little more than gasp and stare at him wide-eyed. She had hardly thought about her mother in all this time, and the woman had been dead for far longer than she would ever have suspected. What were you supposed to feel when your mother died? Sadness? Grief? She didn't feel either of those things; then again, when was the last time she had _had_ a mother?

The elf was now looking at her, slightly concerned. “You knew her, _dulzura?_ ”

The term of endearment came as a surprise to her, but she kind of liked it. And so she didn't object. She was still too stunned to protest, anyway, barely able to choke out the answer to his question.

“She was…my…mother.” Her throat was dry, despite the lump forming in it.

Zevran nodded. “I am sorry, _dulzura_. She had seen much sorrow, your mother. It was in her face and eyes and even her voice. But she was liked enough, worked hard enough. She was kind to me, though I was no more of a son to her than I was to any of the other women. She did not deserve her fate; everyone agreed on that.”

And to her surprise, she found herself agreeing; as angry as she was with her mother for leaving her to the mercy of the Crows, she knew it hadn’t been intentional. What had her mother done to make her father walk out? Nothing in particular that she remembered; he’d just simply grown tired of her, it seemed. Her mother might have chosen to deal with her father’s leaving in a bad way, but she hadn’t deserved having to deal with that circumstance.

“Did she ever mention me?” she dared to ask.

Slowly, he shook his head. “She never mentioned a daughter.”

She sighed, resigned but not disappointed. What other response could she have expected? “Thank you, Zevran. I appreciate your honesty.”

He nodded. “Honesty is rarer than pure lyrium, especially around here. Value it as such.” Then, as if sensing she wanted to be alone, he left the quarters.

She sat on her bed for a long time until the dinner bell rang, thoughts turning over and over in her mind. Her mother had relied on a man, and then on other men, to take care of her, and she had ended up giving her life for one – first emotionally, then physically. Just the thought made her sick to her stomach. Her mother hadn’t died in that brothel, she realized; she had died the day her father had walked out all those years ago. It had just taken her body a while to catch up.

Well, she vowed to herself that day, sitting alone in her quarters, _she_ wouldn’t be like her mother. She wouldn’t rely on a man to take care of her. She wouldn’t rely on anyone, only on herself.

She’d had plenty of practice, after all. And she owed that to her mother.

o~O~o

Zevran knew her past. He knew it because he’d lived it as well. The same trainings, the same conditions, the same violations. And despite all of that – or perhaps because of it – he still wanted her.

He did not make a secret of that fact, and she did not dissuade him. Living in the same compound and sharing the same room gave them plenty of opportunity to get to know each other. Not _that_ well, not at first – she wasn’t ready for that just yet, and he, to her surprise, respected that. Instead, they talked and trained together for several weeks after their first meeting, and he kept his advances small, yet clear – a brushing of their hands here, a stretched leg there, even a lingering gaze or two (usually in her eyes) thrown in now and then. Bit by bit, he kept at it, reading her signals like a book, somehow knowing exactly when she was receptive to more touching and flirting or when she simply wasn’t in the mood, and responding accordingly.

He wasn’t going to be her true first – she added “true” because for her own sanity, she refused to think of Master Carlos as her first. No, her first had been when she was fifteen; it was clumsy and quick and he had avoided eye contact with her ever since. Evidently he had decided he preferred her male roommates instead. There had been some competition over her, being one of only a few girls, but it was never as intense or cutthroat as she might have expected. Not that she minded, really. She had had quite enough of being viewed as a prize from Master Carlos.

Her master hadn’t come to her bunk in some years; it had stopped around the time she was fifteen or sixteen. She didn't know what had prompted the change, but she suspected it was due to the fact that at that point, she could easily kill him with her bare hands – and none of the other masters would likely object. Still, she continued to drink her tea every day, for her own health if nothing else, and relished being able to sleep through the night again. That was one reason her first had been so fast, never mind her partner’s lack of experience. She had remembered – she hadn’t wanted to – but all those nights Master Carlos had come to her had flashed before her in a painful maelstrom of memory, and it was all she could do to end the encounter as soon as possible.

Time, and space, had made things better in that regard. Being able to deal with Master Carlos as little as possible gave her time to forget, to take back a little of the power he’d stolen from her. And part of that power lay in being able to choose who she took to bed, with whom she shared her most sacred space.

She never told Zevran – or Zev, as she was now calling him – any of this. She didn’t have to. He already knew – and more importantly, he understood. Some nights when she awoke, shivering and afraid, she would roll over and see him quietly looking her way from his bunk, knowing and concerned. She never asked, but she knew he was watching out for her, and for that she was grateful.

He didn’t wait around for her, nor did she expect him to. He satisfied himself with more partners than she cared to count or ask about, told her about all of them in as much or as little detail as she wanted to hear. She knew he wasn’t trying to make her jealous – what would be the point? She was one of a handful of women in their compound; she could have her pick. He was merely demonstrating what she could have if she wanted, when she was ready. Almost all the men bragged about their sexual prowess. Zev was one of the few who she believed could live up to it.

And eventually, she did want. She was ready. True to form, he did not prime her with brandy or any other manipulations when the time came. He merely offered her an Antivan massage.

Ironically enough, her first time with Zevran wasn't in either of their bunks – not enough room or privacy, he had somehow managed to convey over the heavy kissing and petting that had led to their taking that last leap. Instead, they consummated their…relationship in a vineyard during the bustle of Satinalia celebrations, when they were not missed.

There was nothing gentle or loving about their coupling. It was fast and furious, and it was supposed to help them forget. And it was all their own choice. When it was over, there wasn’t even a kiss between them, merely a nod, smile, and an unspoken agreement that their first time would not be their last.

Over subsequent encounters, over the months that became years in their acquaintance – friendship – whatever was between them, they had more time to explore each other, to learn what made them feel good, to share what they learned from others. They discovered that the better it was, the less empty they felt afterwards.

Each of them knew they weren’t the other's only partner, or even one of a select few. No, rarely did either of them discriminate, and in his case he wasn’t even choosy about gender. For her part, her interest in women was present about as often as the opportunity – which was to say, rarely.

It was through Zevran that she first learned the strange, dichotomous nature of sex. On the one hand, it was complicated – a matter of whose limb went where, what was the best position, who was muffling whose sounds so they wouldn’t be heard. On the other, it was simple – just warmth and movement, just two bodies joining as one. Nothing more to it than that.

And, it felt good. Wonderful, even. There was that, too.

o~O~o

With each contract she completed, she moved up in status. She was rewarded with a portion of her takings from each killing, received better weapons and additional training, merited the honor of having certain marks of the Crows tattooed on her skin (though nowhere readily visible, somewhat to her disappointment), and after years of hard work, eventually earned her own room. It was still small and confined, but it was her own. Hers to relax in at the end of a difficult day, hers to let in – and keep out – whomever she chose. And the blood of all the victims she’d taken to earn it would have painted all four walls.

She would never remember how many she’d killed. What she would always remember was everything that she remembered about Raoul. The colors of their eyes, their last words, the smell of their last breath, their pleas for mercy. The ones who deserved it, and the ones who didn’t.

Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish between the last two. But that wasn’t for her to decide.

o~O~o

She was thirty-one when she received her last assignment.

The client's request was simple enough – kill one high-ranking merchant by the name of Alvarado. The client had no other special instructions; he just wanted Alvarado dead. Easy and straightforward enough. With her place as a new maid in the household secured (foolish of Alvarado to take on new servants with daggers at his neck, truly), she waited for just the right moment to strike.

With access to most of Alvarado's estate, she spent her free time exploring the house and grounds, often shaking her head at the extent to which he flaunted his wealth. The home was beautifully furnished – even the servants’ quarters were as nice to look at as they were to sleep in – and the grounds well-kept, but what would it matter in the end?

She’d been there only a day when she met his daughter.

Azucena was the girl's name. (Why wealthy people had so much sense for money and so little for the names of their true legacy, she would never understand.) She was no more than seven or eight years old. As the assassin watched quietly from both the shadows with her dagger and in the open with a duster in hand, she saw the child and her father together. The girl’s mother, she understood, was often bedridden and unable to care for her.

He wasn’t the most hands-on parent, or overly affectionate, but it was clear he was fond of his daughter, and while she was left in the care of a nanny most of the time, he made an effort to spend some time with her every day. He read to her, played with her, even asked her to help pick out new decorations.

And as his would-be killer observed them, for a few days following her arrival, she began to think.

She felt no particular sentiment towards either of them; Azucena was mostly well-behaved, prone to occasional mischief, and otherwise quite a normal young girl. She was small, blonde, not an especially pretty child but endearing in her own way – much like she had been at that age. No reason anyone should want her dead. Alvarado was her target.

But, she realized as she lay awake one night, trying to plot out the best time to kill him and utterly unable to settle on when, he wasn’t just her mark.

He was Azucena’s father.

She thought of all the luxurious trappings she’d seen in the past few days, and how she’d mused that he wouldn't be able to take any of his excess to his grave. But she had never considered the other side of the coin – what he might leave behind. And what he’d leave would be this little girl.

How would she grow up with no father? the Crow wondered.

_I grew up without a father. And…look how I turned out._

And as she stared out the window, exhausted but unable to sleep, watching the first rays of dawn paint the sky pink and yellow, she wondered if the girl didn’t deserve the chance that _she_ had never had, however briefly.

Oh, if she didn’t kill Alvarado, someone else would. She knew that the Crows never broke their contracts.

But she wasn’t going to be the one to take Azucena’s father away.

o~O~o

“What do you mean, you won’t kill him?” Master Carlos demanded.

She sat before him, cool and defiant. “Exactly what I said. I want no part of Alvarado’s death."

Master Carlos stared her down from across the table. “May I ask why?”

One of his best assassins smirked at him. “When they stretched me on the rack, I hardly even whimpered. Do you think you can do any better?”

Master Carlos exhaled. “ _Concha tu madre_ ,” he muttered under his breath. She pretended not to hear. His head snapped up as he spoke to her again. “Fine. Your reasons don’t matter any more than your wishes do. You will do this job or die trying. Those are your options.”

She tried again. “Can’t you just send someone else to do it?”

Master Carlos stared as if she'd just asked him to dance. “What kind of example would that set? Making other Crows think if they don't want to do a job, they can just hand it off to someone else? No, you know very well we don't operate that way. We would not have become what we are if we worked that way. You know _exactly_ what failure means in this organization.”

She did, and though it wasn’t really necessary, she said it anyway. “Your duty or your life.”

“Good girl.” He smiled patronizingly at her, and she gave up arguing with him further. “You have one week to get it done. And if you try to take credit for someone else doing your job – I _will_ find out.” He glared at her. “After that, you leave me no choice.”

She stifled her simmering anger at the way he tried to shift the blame. _How does it feel_ , she wanted to ask him, _to have all the power and yet no power over another's fate?_

But while Master Carlos might not have had a choice if she failed, _she_ did.

A week, then. More than enough time.

o~O~o

She wanted him to be the first – and last – to know.

“I’m leaving, Zev.”

The elf's hazel eyes stared blankly at her for a moment. “They’re sending you abroad, then?”

She chuckled without humor. “No, Zev. I’m leaving the Crows.”

Zevran continued to look at her, seated on her bed, still puzzled. “But no one leaves the Crows, except in a body bag.”

She sighed. “Do you think I don’t know that? Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though. But I’m not killing Alvarado.” She held up a hand. “Please don’t ask me to explain why -”

Zevran shook his head. “I wasn’t going to, _dulzura_.”

“Thank you.” She paused before going on: “I already asked Master Carlos to send someone else. He turned me down flat, and made it very clear what my choices – or lack thereof – are. So…that leaves me just one option.”

Zevran's look was now concerned as he sat beside her. “Well, the decision is yours. What are you going to do, _cariña?_ ”

Relieved that he didn't question her further or try to convince her to stay, his lover pulled out the coin sack she kept in her belt and began sorting its contents in her hand as she talked. “I’ve sold a few of my marks’ souvenirs – I didn’t want them anymore, anyway – and have some other money saved up from previous jobs. This should be just enough to get me to Ferelden, and possibly a little beyond. I think I can manage from there.”

“Then let me make sure you can at least make it that far, _dulzura_.” Ignoring her protest, Zevran reached for his own coin pouch and added some more to her collection.

“Zev, you shouldn’t -”

He only laughed. “I took perhaps more than I was entitled to on my last job. The least I can do is make sure it will be well spent. And,” he added coyly, “it has always been my pleasure to make sure your resources last as long as possible.”

She shook her head, chuckling. “And the same goes for me.” After a moment, she hugged him tightly. “Oh, Zevran… _te voy a echar de menos._ ”

He embraced her as well. “And I shall miss you, _cariña_. Tell me, why Ferelden?”

She shrugged. “It’s where I was born, where I speak the language as well as I speak Antivan. And it’s about as far away as I can think of to get.”

“All very good reasons,” Zevran agreed. “But my favorite would have to be the second one.”

“Why’s that?”

“It has to do with your skilled tongue.”

She swatted him playfully. “I might have guessed.” They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again. “I’m just not sure what I’m going to do once I get there. I’ll need a cover story, and somewhere to hide. I can figure out the first one on my way there, but we’ll have to see about the second one.”

“I believe I can help you with that,” Zevran said after a moment’s thought. “I have a friend in Ferelden who owes me a few favors. She lives in – where was it? Southmere, yes, that was it. Her name is Janine; she is affiliated with the Crows, but she is merely a contact, not an official member. If you like, I can write to her to let her know you are coming, and ask her to work out a hiding place for you.”

She stared at him, astonished, not daring to hope. “Are you sure, Zev? It’s an awful lot to ask -”

The elf waved a long-fingered hand dismissively. “If I know her half as well as I think I do – and I do know her _very_ well – it will be as simple as baking a name day cake. I will write to her tonight, and only you and I will know. I promise you that.”

The soon-to-be former Crow looked at him in sheer amazement and gratitude before throwing her arms around him and kissing him thoroughly. “Oh, Zev, thank you, thank you! You don't know how much easier that will make things for me. Thank you so much. I can’t ever begin to repay you -”

He came away from the kiss with a spark in his eye – and, for just a moment, a hint of wistfulness. Then it was gone, and he answered, “You owe me nothing, _dulzura_. You have given me your friendship – and more – and that is enough.”

She smiled at him affectionately, her hand still lingering on the back of his neck. Soon she was kissing him again, reaching for the fastenings of his armor as they fell back onto the bed, and he was kissing her back hungrily, enthusiastically, already slipping his hands underneath her shirt.

She pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Then let me give you something to remember me by.”

When the week ended and her deadline passed a few days later, Alvarado was still alive. Furious, Master Carlos went straight to her quarters, sword in hand, to demand an explanation.

What he found was an empty room, and no trace of where its occupant had gone.

o~O~o

The town was named Haven, ironically enough.

It had been a long, tiring journey from Antiva City to Highever, and westward from there, then southwest to Southmere. She might have enjoyed sightseeing more had she not spent most of her time looking over her shoulder. Perhaps she could have been more excited about returning to Ferelden, but the circumstances were far from ideal. She had been a child when she’d left; she barely remembered this strange, cool country that frequently smelled of wet dog. But at least for now, she had escaped, and she was content with that.

Now, by complete accident – since it wasn’t marked on her map – she found herself in this little village in the Frostback Mountains. She’d only stopped to purchase supplies, and within two minutes’ arrival had immediately decided against asking for lodging. No, she was camping as far away as possible from this village if she couldn’t find a tavern somewhere else. In a few days’ time, she’d be in Southmere, where Janine would hopefully be waiting for her.

On her way out, she spotted a tiny cemetery behind a building in the lower village, and decided to take a quick look. Some of the stones’ messages were humorous, others serious.

One stone in particular caught her eye. It was smaller and simpler than most of the others, yet unlike them appeared well cared-for, a dried nosegay resting at its base. Curious, she bent over to read it.

Carved into the plain grey stone was the following:

 

**MARY ELIZABETH**

**BELOVED DAUGHTER**

**MAY SHE RISE WITH ANDRASTE**

**14 HARVESTMERE, 9:02 DRAGON**

 

The bit about rising with Andraste was a little odd, but she didn't think much of it. She knelt and ran her leather-gloved fingers over the small stone, over the name engraved there. Though she had given another name to the few who had asked on her way here, she had felt strangely dissatisfied with it, like it was an ill-fitting shirt. This name, though…it was like spotting a dress in the window and knowing, just _knowing_ without even touching it, that it would be perfect.

_Well,_ she thought, feeling a twinge of something that might have been sadness, _you’ll live again through me, little one. In a way._

What, indeed, was in a name?

o~O~o

Janine was indeed waiting for her in Southmere.

“And you must be Zevran’s friend…?” she asked the now ex-Crow once she'd opened the door of her small, yet cozy house.

The blonde woman answered with the name she had told Zevran beforehand, the one she’d been using till that fateful afternoon in Haven. “But,” she added, “from now on I’m Mary. Mary Elizabeth.”

The name still felt strange and new, like a newly-fitted suit of armor, but Mary felt sure she would grow accustomed to it in time. As with armor, it would settle on her, fitting her contours with time, protecting her from her past and preparing her for the future.

Janine nodded. “Good choice. Much more Fereldan-sounding. Now you just have to work on the accent. Good to meet you. Come on in, then.” She was an attractive, dark-haired woman with a pleasant manner, though the glint in her eyes instantly told Mary that she was constantly thinking, plotting, always ready for the unexpected – exactly the type of person the Crows would want working for them.

Once Mary had settled some of her things in the guest room, they sat down to tea together, as it was only late afternoon. Supper was already on the stove, pleasant smells drifting from the large pot that was resting there.

“How do you know Zevran?” Mary asked her once their cups were poured and biscuits had been portioned out.

Janine laughed. “ _Very_ well, if you know what I'm saying. As I’m told most people know him.” Her gaze turned dreamy for a few moments before snapping back to business. “He’s one of the few truly decent sorts in the Crows – so if he vouches for you, I believe it. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say he helped me out of some scrapes with a few unfortunate one-night stands. Taught me how to pick better, too. Even took the trouble to _show_ me how much better it could be.” She smiled ruefully. “So I did owe him a favor or two, and I guess now we’re even. No offense.”

“None taken,” Mary replied. “You met him when he came to the capital for a job a few years ago, he said?”

Janine nodded. “I was working out of my native Denerim for a while, but after several months I got tired of the commotion of the city. So, I eventually made my way here, and don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

“And the Crows don’t mind you working in this little village?”

Janine shrugged. “You know they have eyes and ears everywhere. Tiny backwater villages are no exception. I’m just one of them. But,” she quickly added when she saw Mary tense slightly, “where you’re going, I don’t believe there are any active contacts. I made sure of that.”

Mary sighed with relief. “Thank you. So, what’s your plan?”

Janine set down her teacup. “I’ll be frank with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Mary found herself liking Janine more and more.

“Good.” Janine folded her hands on the table. “So let me be the first to congratulate you on your engagement.”

Mary stared her at her for almost a full minute, the words not sinking in. “I – beg your pardon?”

“You’re going to get married.” Janine casually took a sip of tea.

Mary blinked at last. Of all the plans she had been expecting Janine to concoct, an arranged marriage had been one of the lowest on the list. “To whom?”

“An acquaintance of mine, Roderick Morstan.” Having finished her biscuits, Janine promptly reached for another. “He’s thirty-two years old, a vegetable farmer – and widower – who came here almost a decade ago by way of Redcliffe Village. As you may have guessed, he’s the rural type. Long story short, he’s selling his current place and moving to one he just bought in the town of Goldlake, in the Hinterlands.”

“A widower?” Mary tilted her head. “What’s the story there?”

“It’s rather sad, actually.” Janine shook her head. “I never met his wife, but by all accounts she was lovely. He told me what happened to her after I’d known him about a year. They’d been happily married for several years before she got pregnant. Then six months in, something went wrong and the baby came too early. The healers did everything they could, but she died giving birth. Their baby died the next day. They’re buried here, together.”

Mary nodded without speaking. Life itself, she reflected, could be cruel in ways few people would dare to be. She could sense Janine wasn’t playing this up for her benefit, wasn’t trying to make her feel sorry for the man. The other woman was simply giving all the background she could, preparing her for what she was walking into, and she appreciated that.

“It's been a few years,” Janine went on, “and he just wants a fresh start now. He's already agreed to my offer, so the choice is yours.”

Mary laughed, almost bitterly. “What choice?”

At Janine’s chagrined look, she quickly clarified, “No, no, I don’t mean to imply that I’m ungrateful. I greatly appreciate what you’ve done. It's just…what else can I do?”

Janine nodded sympathetically. “This is your best bet, Mary. I can't force you into this, and I wish I could give you more options, but…trying to escape the Crows is far from simple.”

Mary shrugged. “If the most I have to do is marry a stranger and live on a farm, perhaps I’ve gotten off easier than most who’ve tried.”

Janine smiled. “True. Remember that.”

“Well,” Mary said as she took a biscuit, “you’ve told me everything about him; now I need to ask what you’ve told him about me.”

Janine nodded. “He knows your age, that you were orphaned as a young child and that you were brought up by…friends. He knows you got into some trouble in Antiva and you’re looking to get away quickly. Beyond that, he didn’t want to know much more besides superficial stuff – favorite foods, hobbies, things like that.”

Mary stared. “That’s all? He didn’t want to know _why_ I’m running? He’s not worried I might murder him in his sleep and run off with all his money?”

Janine chuckled. “I asked him almost the same thing! He said he didn’t want to pry, and feels the less he knows, the better. He did say that if you want to tell him anything, that’s your choice. He also said that while he can support you, he doesn’t have much money, so that’s not much of a concern for him.”

She set down her cup and rested her hands on the table. Before Mary could ask her her next question, she went on, “I know what you’re thinking – so why did he agree to marry you? Let me put it this way, Mary – he’s not looking for love. He’s not looking for household help, either. He just wants a companion, and to help someone in need. He doesn’t like being alone, he says, but he doesn't necessarily want to go through all the hassle of trying to find a partner. He’s well aware this may be a marriage in name only – and he says that having already married for love, he’s fine with that. You can even have someone on the side as long as you're discreet about it. He just hopes you’ll be safe, and happy.”

Mary couldn’t speak for a few minutes after that. She hadn’t even met this man yet and already he was treating her better than almost every other man she had ever known. She could only imagine the number of women who'd tried to win his hand after his wife’s death; he must be relieved to finally escape all that nonsense. Had Janine ever tried to make a play for him and failed, she wondered? From the way she was speaking about him, Mary doubted it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Tell me more about the town.”

And Janine did. Goldlake, which was about two hours away by foot and less so by other methods, was named for its best feature, a beautiful lake with a smooth surface that appeared golden when the rising or setting sun shone on it at just the right angle. It was largely a community of farmers and fishermen, neighbors friendly but somewhat spread out in clusters around the lake.

All of it sounded fine to Mary. Not ideal, perhaps, but good enough. She’d have the escape she wanted, the quiet life she sought – even a partner who would let her define their relationship on her terms. She couldn’t have asked for more than that.

“I’ll make your wedding arrangements tomorrow, for the day after,” Janine said. “Nothing fancy, just enough for the Maker to approve.” She said “the Maker” almost flippantly; if there were any doubts about her spiritual leanings, she left none with that remark. “Roderick’s all packed up and ready to move the day after the wedding, so just leave all your things as-is. In the meantime, I thought you might like to meet your husband-to-be. How does that sound?”

Mary nodded. “I’d like that. And – thank you, Janine, so much. I can’t begin to -”

Janine held up a hand to stem her thanks. “It wasn’t much trouble, Mary, really. A friend of Zevran’s is a friend of mine. The Crows wouldn't value me so much if I weren’t able to come up with things like this. And at least I don’t have to remind you how lucky you are.”

Mary said nothing in response, only bit her lip and nodded. “Yes…I am lucky.” How long had it been since she had been taken care of like this?

Once again, her destiny was being decided for her. But at least this time it was to save her life.

“Now,” Janine said cheerfully, returning to business, “why don’t we get to work on that accent of yours?”

o~O~o

Mary and her husband-to-be met for drinks at the local tavern the next day. She arrived first, and had to stop herself from ordering her favorite Antivan brandy, contenting herself with too-sweet, watery ale, having already been advised not to order the rum. She sat at a side table, tankard in hand, watching every man who came in alone through the door – but with a curious gaze, not a predatory one, unlike many of the women in the tavern.

After several minutes of waiting, she looked up when she heard the door open again – and as the man began to look around, unlike all the other men who’d come in before, she knew. She felt a tingle of nerves, and took a quick swallow of ale to calm them. What did she have to be anxious about? She’d been in tighter scrapes than this, had had to prepare to take on men two or three times her size to get the job done. Why was meeting the husband who’d been chosen for her so nerve-wracking?

Perhaps it was that she knew that no matter what, she wouldn’t be able to walk away at the end of the day.

The man was in his early thirties, as Janine had said, tall and well-built, no doubt with muscles that had developed over years of farming. His chin-length hair, with a single braid tucked back behind his ear, and neatly-trimmed beard were a dark chestnut color, his eyes blue-grey. He was good-looking, though in a quiet way; he might not turn a woman’s head, but she might saunter over with a second glance. Even from where she was seated, Mary could see the lines of worry in his face that contradicted his true age – brought on, no doubt, by the grief he’d had to bear and the added stress of everyday life. She had some matching lines in her face as well.

He spotted her then, and though she knew it was silly she quickly looked away. In moments he was at the table, and she looked up at him, trying to give him her best smile.

_He’s going to be my husband._

And as she shook his hand, she could see him thinking almost the same thing: _She’s going to be my wife_.

“Roderick Morstan,” he said, sitting down across from her, his manner friendly.

“Mary Elizabeth,” she replied in her best Fereldan accent, sensing nothing untoward in his behavior. So far he seemed to be exactly the decent sort Janine had described him to be. The other woman might have been a self-admitted poor judge of character, but she seemed to have gotten it right with this man, at least – perhaps because she had absolutely no desire to sleep with him.

As they drank, they kept their conversation light, mostly discussing topics like farm life and shared interests. Too, they outlined the terms of their marriage that Janine had briefly touched on – Roderick wasn’t looking for a farmhand or maid, but he would appreciate at least some cooking and cleaning to help out, which Mary easily agreed to. She wasn’t planning on an unproductive existence any more than he was, but she was glad he wouldn't force her to work. Their meeting was brief and a little awkward, but by the end Mary felt confident she could at least consider this man a friend, and someone she could live with. She could only hope he felt the same, as they shook hands and parted ways to await word from Janine.

For her part, Janine found a Revered Mother at the local Chantry willing to perform a quick marriage ceremony, once she saw neither party was under duress, and after she counseled both of them, separately and together, over the course of that day. The ten sovereigns Janine discreetly slipped the Chantry leader when she agreed didn’t hurt, either; Mary vowed to pay her back tenfold, and throw in a donation to the Chantry while she was at it.

Following the counseling, the small, quiet wedding took place the next afternoon. Janine and several Lay Sisters were the only guests.

And when it was all over, the woman who’d been so much and so little over the course of her life now had an identity that could be, hopefully, permanent: Mary Elizabeth Morstan.

o~O~o

The Morstans made the trip to the farm in Goldlake the day after their wedding, and settled into married life comfortably enough, shared and yet separate. They occupied their own rooms, didn’t always eat meals together, and could go days with fewer than ten words said between them; the only activity they regularly shared was attending weekly Chantry services. His time was spent primarily working on the farm; hers was spent taking care of the house, reading, trying to learn to knit, and keeping mostly to herself. Once in a while, when she was sure Roderick would be out for some time, she cleaned and polished her beloved daggers and the set of leather armor she kept hidden in the house; once or twice a month she sneaked them both out of the house and had them refitted and looked at by the local blacksmith, a discreet and taciturn man whose efficiency would have made the Crows proud. She knew she would never need them again, but she couldn’t bring herself to sell them or let them fall into disrepair. They’d served her well, and she would take good care of them in turn. Sometimes, under cover of night, she would sneak in a few practice sessions with them, just to make sure she wouldn’t get rusty. It never hurt to have self-defense skills, after all.

It was fortunate that she usually ate alone, as her attempts at cooking often nearly burned the house down. Cleaning wasn’t her strong suit, either; sometimes it seemed keeping the house neat took more effort than actually making it so. But Roderick never seemed to mind, thanking her for her work and dutifully eating each morsel of the few meals they shared. Working on the farm left him little time or energy for anything else, and he appreciated her domestic efforts after having had to manage on his own for so long. For her part, Mary was determined not to be an idle partner in their marriage, and made sure she was involved in their finances as well as every major decision that came their way.

The only regular undertaking Roderick never involved her in was a monthly day trip to Southmere, from which he always returned a little sadder than before; when he wouldn’t tell her more, Mary didn’t press him. She knew he was visiting the graves of his wife and child.

One day, six months into their marriage, Mary finally asked Roderick to show her the basics of running the farm.

He seemed surprised by her request, but did not object, only saying, “I hope you don’t feel obligated to help; I can always hire someone if necessary.”

Mary shook her head. “It’s kind of you to say that, but I do want to learn.” She added, “If you died tomorrow, I’d want to know how to run everything on my own.”

A shadow flickered across his expression for an instant; she bit her lip, wondering if that had been the wrong thing to say. Soon, however, it passed, and he said, “That’s very practical of you.”

The next day he took her with him on his daily chores, showing her the basics of farming, how to keep track of supplies, what problems to look out for, how to choose the best vegetables to sell. By the end of the day Mary was exhausted, though in the rewarding way that she always felt after a long day of satisfying work.

“I’m amazed you managed to do all that and live on your own for the past few years,” she said once they had sat down to dinner.

Roderick chuckled. “Well, I did have a farmhand or two during harvest time, but mostly I prefer to do it on my own. My late wife helped out when she was alive, but she did mostly what you do now, running the house and such. She never took much of an interest in farming otherwise, less so after she…became pregnant.” He looked down for a moment. “I guess I should have been used to being all on my own after she died, but…it was never the same.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said sympathetically. “That was sort of how I felt after my parents died. They weren’t the most nurturing, hands-on parents, but…I missed them. I still do.”

Roderick nodded, looking up at her again as a moment of understanding passed between them. “You were brought up by friends afterwards, right?”

“Ye-es,” Mary said cautiously. “But they weren’t…really the best people to raise a child. Didn’t know much about parenting. They fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, all the basics – but they were more like lawgivers than caregivers.” She chuckled, humorlessly, and bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood, blinking furiously. “I – I guess I should be used to being alone, too.”

She tore her gaze from his to stare at her lap then, angry with herself for the warmth she felt trickling down her cheek and sad for what had caused it.

“Hey, hey…” Of course, she had sensed him coming, but she was still startled to find Roderick gently wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“It’s all right,” she lied, quickly wiping her eyes, her next words spilling out of her as freely as her tears. “You know, I sort of prefer being alone, since almost everyone who got close used me or – or worse, but you’ve been so good to me, letting me do what I want, you make me want to be a little closer to you…but of course if that’s not what you want -”

“I never said I didn’t.”

Startled, Mary looked up at the man who was still holding her. His sincerity was beyond doubt. After a few moments, he released her, then pulled up a chair to sit next to her.

“You aren’t alone now, Mary,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I would rather be left alone; I just wanted you to be able to set things on your own terms. Regardless of how it happened, we are married, and if you want to make this work as a real marriage, I’ll be happy to do my part. Just don’t -” And he abruptly stopped, as if afraid of saying too much.

“Expect you to love me?” Mary finished. She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m not looking for love either, Roderick – let’s be honest, I married you as an escape. I know you still love your first wife, and probably always will. But _you_ married _me_ , too, and it’s not necessarily that I feel I owe you, but I do want to do my part. I was always taught to earn my place, and…I saw how helpless my mother was after my father was gone. She couldn’t live without him. I don’t want to be like her…but I’ve been so alone for most of my life, I don’t think I want to anymore. ”

Roderick nodded. “That’s a good goal to aspire to. You want to be independent, so you can take care of yourself if you have to, but you like having companionship, too.”

“Yes, exactly.” Mary was relieved that he understood what she meant.

Her husband looked her in the eye. “Mary, you _have_ earned your place here. Even if you didn’t help out as much around the house as you do, I know that you’re making an effort to escape trouble, and for that alone I’m glad to help out.” He paused before continuing. “You know I told Janine that I didn’t need to know about your past and that it was up to you to tell me. I want to amend that now. Your past made you who you are today, and while I won’t ask you to tell me what happened to you, you’re welcome to tell me anything you want, anytime you want. And if you don’t mind, I’ll do the same.” His hand closed gently around hers. “You can trust me.”

She looked up, startled, and saw the question in his eyes at her reaction. “Thank you, Roderick. No one…no one ever told me that before.”

The look on his face was warm, yet tinged with sadness – not pity, as she would have expected – as he reached out to pat her shoulder. “I can’t say I’m glad to have been the first; you should have heard that a long time ago.”

Mary smiled. “I’m hearing it now, aren’t I?”

He returned her smile, and inexplicably she felt her heart stop, just for a moment, at the genuine kindness she saw. “Yes. You are, Mary. And I hope it won’t be the last time you hear it.”

o~O~o

She did tell him more, little by little over the next several months. Not everything, of course, but bits and pieces of her past that would help him understand why she acted the way she did. She told him how she'd been made to work hard with barely a day’s rest as a child just so she could eat, how she’d essentially grown up on the streets after her father left, how she’d been hurt by those who were supposed to take care of her, how she had never felt she could trust anyone. She even told him a fictionalized version of who _Raoul_ was, so he wouldn’t think Raoul was an old lover or something more salacious. And with each confession, he simply listened, commented or shook his head when appropriate, then hugged her and told her how sorry he was that she had had to go through that. He never questioned or judged, and for that she was grateful. In turn, he told her more about himself, about growing up on a farm elsewhere in the Hinterlands, his somewhat strained relationship with his father after his mother’s untimely death from illness, meeting his first wife by chance, their courtship and marriage and eventual move to Redcliffe Village.

They still slept in separate beds at the end of the day, but the distance between them didn’t seem as deliberate now. Mary knew they weren’t quite ready to bridge that final gap, but she was in no hurry to do so. She was rather enjoying this slow process of getting to know each other, of simply being there for each other without expecting anything more. When she noticed Roderick’s trips to Southmere lessening in frequency, she made no comment.

One night, after hours of talking, listening, and comforting, they ended up falling asleep in front of the fire in each other’s arms. When they woke at sunrise, they were still fully-clothed and hadn’t done so much as kiss during the night – and yet, Mary couldn’t remember ever having felt closer to anyone. She told him so.

He smiled. “It’s been a long time for me, too. But if I’m not being too forward…what do you say we try that in a bed next time? Might be more comfortable.”

Mary could barely contain her glee at his invitation, even knowing he didn’t mean anything more than cuddling. “As long as you’re comfortable with…this,” she said, and kissed him.

The kiss was chaste and tentative, no longer than a few seconds, and yet the volumes of the shared affection it expressed had been building up for weeks beforehand. When they pulled apart, Roderick was smiling broadly. “More than comfortable, Mary,” he said finally.

She whispered her reply before kissing him again. “Good…Roddy.”

His full name just seemed too formal now. And he didn’t seem to mind at all, not as he kissed her back with growing enthusiasm.

They rarely slept in separate rooms after that, only parting when one of them was sick or other circumstances dictated it. While, indeed, they did nothing more than snuggle and talk, neither of them minded. It gave them an opportunity to be close at night that they didn’t have during the day with both of them working.

Almost unconsciously, this newfound intimacy began to extend to other aspects of their life. They prepared and ate breakfast and dinner together almost every day. When Mary had finished with her chores, she often went out to help him with his, and left some things around the house for them to do together. They read books and played games in the evening before bed. She even ventured out for lunch and shopping with the neighbors now and then – Roddy accompanying her when he could – gradually beginning to befriend some of them.

And at last Mary felt she was beginning to live the life her namesake never had.

o~O~o

They’d been married just about a year and a half when another turning point came. As with everything else between them, the buildup had been gradual, and Roddy had let her determine the course of things. As with all slow change, she couldn’t have pinpointed exactly when it had started, but she had noticed Roddy holding her a little tighter when they hugged, pulling her just a bit closer when they cuddled. She reciprocated, of course, knowing he had no ulterior motive.

Then there was the kissing. Instead of the usual clamoring to attack each other’s faces that she was used to with her previous partners followed by a quick roll in the hay (sometimes literally, depending on where they were), her and Roddy’s quick good-night and -morning pecks had evolved into kissing at nearly every opportunity, and long (but somehow also short) evenings of talking and kissing in front of the fire. Kissing without expectation, only expression, was a novel experience for her, and she couldn’t have enough of it – or him.

The culmination of all this unselfish, honest affection came after one such evening. They hadn’t done much talking in front of the fire that night. When their kissing and petting had turned particularly intense, Roddy took advantage of a break to whisper, “When you’re ready, you know where my room is.”

She pulled back and looked at him for a long moment. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, he covered her mouth with his, parting their lips, their tongues seeking each other with pure desire and warmth, leaving her dizzy with longing. When they pulled apart at last, breathless and wanting, he answered, “Only if you are.”

Mary just smiled in response, before rising and pulling him to his feet to lead him to bed.

Once they were in his room, they stood there for a few moments just looking at each other, both knowing what they wanted but neither sure how to proceed. Once again, it was Mary who took the lead, kissing him deeply and pulling him towards the bed as she did so, only stopping to lie down and make room for him.

The love she saw in his eyes almost brought her to tears. He whispered, “If you’ve changed your mind and just want to sleep, let me know.”

Immediately, she shook her head, smiling. “I’ve been just sleeping long enough.”

He nodded, and even in the dim light she could just make out the hints of desire blossoming in his gaze. “On your own time, then.”

It began with touch. For a while, they simply laid on their sides in silence and looked at each other, skimming their hands over each other's clothes and few inches of bare skin. He kept his word and let her set the pace; when his fingers lingered at her waist or sleeve, she sensed he wanted to go further, but then he would resume his gentle caresses as if he were content to do nothing else. Never had any man teased her, tempted her so much, by barely trying to do either.

It was her who pulled him into a kiss, their second of the evening, rolling on top of him with their lips joined to keep as much control of the situation as possible. This seemed to spur him on, as he kissed her back with renewed passion, hands roving and kneading every part of her still-clothed body. She briefly wondered if his first wife had been pliant and submissive in bed, but quickly dismissed the thought as she dared to slip her hands beneath his shirt, run her fingers over his hard, muscled chest. It was just the two of them in this bed.

It was quite a while before they even got all their clothes off, as they savored and explored every inch of skin they exposed, touching and tasting each other with slow, wondering tenderness. Ordinarily she might have stripped down immediately and had him do the same, eager for him to take her, but their slow explorations had her brimming before they were even naked together, and she never wanted it to end. She wanted to know and love every last bit of this man who had opened his home and now his heart to her, and she knew he wanted to do the same for her.

There was a simultaneous intensity and intimacy to his touches and kisses that she had never experienced with Zevran, or some of her other partners. Zevran (and a few of the others) had been good to her, had always put her desires before his – as she had done for him – but their couplings were strictly about pleasure, not passion. Sex for them had been little more than an escape, a few stolen moments to shield their sanity. This, though…this was something she didn’t need to exist.

No, making love to Roddy – for there was no mistaking it as anything else – and being made love to by him was something she needed to _live._ They were no mere lovers; they were husband and wife, now in every sense of the words.

And at long last, when she was beneath him – at her request, the better to look at him as he filled her – and they became one, only one thing kept her from feeling truly complete.

When he slid home, he breathed her name over her gasp. Even in that moment, the incongruity was startling. The name he called her, the name he groaned again and again as he moved in and out of her in a desperate, steady rhythm – that name was her most prized possession, and it wasn't even truly hers.

But what he gave her in this moment was far more precious than the name she stole. As she wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him further into her warmth, as she clung to him like a bee to a flower, moaning his name in turn at the moments they each found their release, she knew she had, at last, something that was meant to be hers, and hers alone.

They didn’t say the words till the next morning. They didn’t have to.

They had not expected to love each other – but by some strange miracle, they did.

o~O~o

From that night onward, their marriage transformed from a content coexistence into a truly happy partnership. Certainly, they had their occasional disagreements, but they always managed to work through them and come out stronger than before. Neither could imagine life without the other, each completed by the other's love, acceptance, and friendship. They expressed that love during the day in small ways – such as Roddy helping Mary into her cloak before they went out, or Mary having his favorite meals and a cool drink ready for him at the end of every day - and conveyed it further nearly every night in their bed together. Though she still hadn’t told him every detail of her past – or vice versa – Mary had never felt more safe and open to be herself, even when she had to redefine that at times. He let her figure it out on her own, never judging her, only being there to hug her and comfort her in her darker moments, and smile with her in happier times.

This was what it was like to have a partner, a partner you were lucky enough to love and be loved by in return. She could not ever have imagined having a life – or love – like this.

Even the stress of having to evacuate their farm to escape the Fifth Blight only brought them closer together. To their relief, when they eventually returned, most of their property was still intact; some stray darkspawn had come their way, but the bulk of the horde had not gone near Goldlake. When Mary heard that Zevran had not only come to Ferelden, but had been instrumental in helping the Hero of Ferelden stop the Blight, all she could do was smile, pleased that he had found his own escape.

The Morstans’ joy only multiplied when, five years into their marriage, Mary visited the village healer one afternoon and learned she was pregnant. Roddy was delighted to near tears with the news; instead of cheering and hollering, he simply pulled her to him and held her tightly, kissing her hair and forehead over and over again, whispering how much he loved her. She hugged and kissed him back and returned his affections a hundred times over, and soon afterwards little else was said between them that night.

Soon, they worked out a roster of chores agreeable to both of them, which would allow her to continue helping out without putting too much strain on her body. And so the next several weeks continued peacefully, uneventfully. She worked diligently and ate well, and though she was barely showing, she swore she could feel the life growing inside her – and with it, her excitement.

Two months into her pregnancy, Roddy and a few other farmers in Goldlake prepared to leave on a trip they’d been planning for the past few months, traveling to some more remote villages to sell their goods. He had offered to cancel and stay with her, but Mary had insisted he go, since the trip would likely prove highly profitable and wouldn’t take long. She wasn’t that far along yet, and would be sure to take care of herself while he was gone. And so one morning, he kissed her goodbye, told her he loved her, and she waved from their door until he was out of sight.

He’d only been gone four days when she received the letter, on the last normal night of her life.

With chores finished, dinner eaten and the house clean, she’d been relaxing by the fire with some tea and a good book. The hour was growing late, and she was just beginning to feel sleepy when she heard a knock at her door.

Startled from her relaxation, she tensed slightly, then cautiously went to the door. Old habits died hard, she supposed. Looking through the peephole, she saw a teenaged boy waiting on her doorstep, looking somewhat flushed and out of breath – no one she recognized, but then she didn’t know all the children in Goldlake, either. Quite a few had arrived since the end of the Blight, most of them former Redcliffe residents whose homes had been destroyed.

“Is this where Mary Morstan lives?” the boy asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“How was your journey?” she asked carefully, on a hunch.

“My path here was short,” was the answer.

Mary sighed quietly with relief – but within moments her suspicion returned. That was the code phrase she and Janine had worked out to ensure their communications were really between the two of them (based on the saying _as the crow flies_ ); until now, they had simply worked it into their letters to each other, sent by ordinary post. Neither of them had ever had cause to communicate via messenger, though Janine was the only one she could think of who might have need to. What was going on?

There was only one way to find out. She opened the door.

“Letter for you, Mrs. Morstan,” the boy said, holding out an envelope.

“Oh? Who’s it from?” She already knew the answer, but wanted to confirm.

“Miss Janine, ma’am.”

Mary frowned briefly. Why had Janine been in such a hurry to contact her? She could write her a letter at any time to send by normal post and Mary would answer it at her leisure…unless…

The boy cut into her thoughts again. “Sorry for the late hour, but she said I was to make sure you read it, as soon as possible. So I came here as quick as I could.”

A pit began to grow in her stomach then, and it had nothing to do with the baby. Numbly, she reached for the letter, handed the boy three sovereigns from the purse by the door and thanked him, then opened the envelope once he was gone.

 

_Mary,_

_I don’t know if you’ve heard this already, but I pray you haven’t, because if you have and my message didn’t reach you in time, it may already be too late._

_Even so, I’m sorry to have to tell you this: Roderick is dead._

 

Mary's heart stopped, her gaze frozen on those three little words at the letter’s beginning.

_Roderick is dead._

No. No, this couldn’t be right. No, Janine must have made some kind of mistake. Roddy was fine; he was fine, she’d just said goodbye to him not even a week ago. Her Roddy was strong and sturdy; he could handle anything. He’d be home in a few days and their life would get back to normal. If he _was_ dead – and he couldn’t be – surely she would have heard so by now. What did Janine know, anyway? She didn’t live here! She didn’t work for the Crows, not really!

Mary held up a hand and closed her eyes, signaling herself mentally to stop. No, Janine would not have written to her, would not have sent a messenger unless she were absolutely sure. For now, she would have to accept that Janine was telling the truth, and Roddy was dead.

With her eyes still shut, she slid down the door to the floor, taking deep breaths without even being aware of doing so. If Janine had learned Roddy was dead, and had been in such a hurry to tell her the news…that could only mean one thing.

Forcing her eyes back down to the parchment, she made herself keep reading.

 

_I can’t imagine what that's like for you to hear. But there’s no time for condolences, I’m afraid. The Crows killed him, Mary, and you know what that means._

_I know you have questions, but there’s only time to answer a few of them. Don’t ask me how I found out, but I know three Crows surprised Roderick and his group as they were returning home from their trip; it seems they thought you would accompany him and this was the best chance of an efficient death for you. (And no, to my knowledge Zevran was not among them.) As you know, they are not in the habit of leaving witnesses, so when they didn’t find you, they killed him and his companions; if I know them and how they work, they didn’t want to leave any evidence that it was them, as these weren’t contracted killings, so I’m guessing they made the deaths look like an accident or a robbery gone wrong. For whatever it’s worth, I am sure Roderick’s death was quick. I suppose they thought that by the time you found out he was dead, they would have tracked you down and finished the job. But they didn't count on_ me.

_There isn’t much else I can say, Mary, other than that I'm so sorry. If I could help you, I’d do it without a second thought, but at this point I think it’s too late. What happens next is up to you. Good luck. I hope to hear from you again._

_Janine_

 

Mary put the letter down, too shocked to even cry. Roddy was dead, and the Crows had killed him. It might have been a mistake on their parts – when killing their own, they didn't bother with warnings, for obvious reasons – but…

Oh, she couldn't feel good about this accidental warning. Not when it came at the cost of her husband’s life, to say nothing of the lives of his friends. Not for the life of a man who had never once asked her about her past and now had paid the price for his love and acceptance.

_Oh, Roddy,_ she thought miserably, _I’m so sorry. It shouldn’t have been you, my love. They should have found me first._

She stayed pressed up against the door for a long time, clinging to the hope that it would open and Roddy would be on the other side, smiling and happy to see her, and knowing it would never be. No, the next time the door opened, it would be her death knell.

All she had to do was wait.

Not much longer now, surely…

_No_.

Her eyes snapped open as the objection was voiced in the back of her head.

_What do you mean, no?_

_No, you’re not going to die like this. You didn’t go to all this trouble to escape just to be caught by them in the end._

She froze, paralyzed by her thoughts, then slowly began to nod. She was not going to die tonight. They would come – let them come. She hadn't gotten Zevran’s and Janine’s help, hadn’t moved to a foreign country and married a perfect stranger only to give _them_ the satisfaction of an easy kill.

She gulped back tears as she thought of Roddy and his sacrifice. Roddy hadn't married her on little more than good faith, hadn’t tried to protect her just so she could let her tormentors find her after he was gone. He hadn’t died so she could follow him soon after, giving up everything he had tried to keep safe.

Oh, Roddy… She held back a sob.

His body, and those of his friends, would likely arrive within a few days’ time once they were discovered; she doubted she had even that long. Some widow she was turning out to be. She couldn't even stay to grieve him, bury him properly. No, she had to go immediately. Scrambling to her feet, she tossed Janine’s letter on the fire and waited for it to burn to ash, then ran up to her room and grabbed her trusty backpack from the closet.

Ever practical, Mary took no more than she could fit into her pack, leaving some room to spare – some clothes, some food, camping gear, their savings. She wasted no time changing from her dress into her favorite leather armor; luckily, she had had it refitted only a few weeks before, and her barely-showing belly fit with few problems. With only a few moments’ hesitation, she reached under their bed and retrieved the daggers she’d stored there, still in perfect condition thanks to her quiet, careful maintenance. Savoring the feel of them in her hands before attaching them to her back, she inadvertently sighed as they slipped neatly into place. For the first time tonight since she’d read Janine's letter, something felt normal.

With all her supplies finally packed, she went to the kitchen and rummaged through a few cupboards. Soon, she had an empty flask sitting on the table, alongside a matchbook, a fire crystal, a dose of corruptor agent, and a pinch or two of other ingredients. Quickly, efficiently, she prepared the fire bomb, her movements smooth and fluid. She then went to the pantry and opened a barrel of oil; it only took a few minutes to spread the contents over each room in the house.

Flask in hand, she pocketed the matchbook, then took one last, quiet glance around at everything she and Roddy had worked for. Everything they had hoped to pass on to their child one day, everything they’d built with love, patience, and cooperation.

How fitting that she would be the one to send it all up in flames.

After opening the living room window, she quietly slipped out of the house, fully armored and ready to run, flask trembling in one hand. She took one last, long look at the house and land as she struck a match.

Then she dropped the lit match inside the flask and tossed the bomb through the open window.

She stayed only long enough to watch the fire ignite, feeding and growing from a small blaze into a raging, devouring sea of flames, felt the heat on her back as she turned and began to run. Ducking from the light, she slipped into the shadows she wore like a second skin, staying out of sight as the fire began to spread from the house to the field, as her neighbors began to wake up and pour from their houses.

_So tragic,_ they’d whisper among themselves in the days to come. _Morstan killed by thieves, and his wife perishing in a terrible accident before she could even bury him._

A terrible accident. Yes, that was her.

She doubted any of the villagers could ever grow accustomed to being surrounded by death.

She could see their matching tombstones now, side-by-side in the small cemetery. His far away from the wife and child he’d buried so long ago, and hers next to the only man who’d cared for her enough to share his life with her, on little more than faith and a promise. Only later was there love.

All she – and Roddy – would leave behind in this village she’d come to love almost as much as him would be signs of their lives that once were. Appropriate enough, she supposed.

She ran then, and didn’t look back.

o~O~o

Several days later, camping alone in a forest miles from her former home, she awakened in the middle of the night to a sharp, seizing pain in her lower back.

Her first thought was that she’d been stabbed. Jerking awake, her head whipped around – but she knew immediately that that wasn't the case. There was nothing in her back, and no one waiting there.

Perhaps she’d eaten something she shouldn’t have. Hopefully the baby wasn’t affected -

The baby.

She sat bolt upright, placed a protective hand on her belly – and in moments, she knew.

No. No, _no_.

Shocked and dazed, she stumbled out of her tent, nearly fell against an oak tree, stopped herself with one hand and managed to turn around, bracing her back against the hard wood. She was imagining things, her instincts were wrong, she couldn’t, _could not_ be right about this, not _this_ -

A strange, hollow feeling flooded her as she felt something wet between her legs. She looked down to see a dull red liquid coating inside her thighs, some of it clotted and greyish.

_No_. No, this could only mean one thing. But…

She’d had a bit of spotting during the past eight weeks – which the healer had said was perfectly normal – but no, no, this was too much blood, too soon, the baby couldn’t be -

The cramp in her abdomen returned, seizing her with the ferocity of a choking hand, and she collapsed to the ground with a cry. She tried to ignore the blood as she forced herself to stand again, gritting her teeth as she fought the ache, shoving her back against the tree as if to force her agony into the solid, sturdy trunk now supporting her boneless limbs and twinging muscles. Somehow, she managed to pull a health poultice from her pocket and gulp down the contents; some of the spasms eased up at once.

She could deal with her body’s pain easily enough. But her other torment would not be so easily assuaged, not as it forced images into her mind of what once was and what would now never be.

They had never learned the gender of their child-to-be. Roddy, bless him, had wanted to be surprised with what they were having. She, however, had been curious, and at one checkup had taken the healer aside to ask. To her disappointment, she had learned the healer couldn’t say for sure until at least four months in – “but,” he had added with a smile, “in my experience, a mother's instinct may know even sooner.”

She’d known – no, felt, but that was as good as knowing for now – that night that they were having a daughter. The girls’ names they'd discussed turned over and over again now in her mind. Grace. Valena. Olivia. Bronwyn. Lillian. Brigid. Katrina. Elissa. Charlotte. Alora.

The names of her newest victim.

Roddy had even jokingly suggested Mary, but she had just as playfully turned him down, saying how confusing it would be to have another Mary in the house.

But at least that Mary would have earned the name.

The tears flowed from her now as freely as the blood.

She didn’t know how long she stayed pressed against that tree, sobbing and gritting her teeth through the pain, as her last hope bled out of her.

o~O~o

She dreamed that night when she finally fell asleep, the first time she’d done so in days.

She found herself standing at the end of a long, narrow corridor, cold and barren and poorly lit with a few flickering torches. Squinting, she could just barely make out a small figure seated in a chair at the other end.

Cautiously, her assassin senses on high alert, she began to walk down the hall. The figure barely moved. As she came closer, she could see the swinging feet that reached barely halfway to the floor, the small hands and fingers occasionally reaching up to twirl stray locks of hair.

She paused, stunned. A child. Swallowing her fears, she kept walking, until she reached the end of the hall, and she sensed the child looking up at her, wide-eyed and innocent, free of judgment, only curious.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The figure finally spoke. “You know who I am. And yet you know nothing about me at all.”

A little girl’s voice. She swallowed. The voice was not one she recognized, yet it sounded strangely familiar.

There was a long silence before she ventured her first guess.

“Mary?” She rasped the word.

The answer was subdued. “If you like. I’ve never had a proper name. Or a proper life, either.”

The older woman’s blood ran cold. Somehow she felt the girl wouldn't say any more about who she was. How could she? She was nothing more than a creation, a vision, no matter who she might be.

She felt her knees begin to buckle as her eyes brimmed. She knelt in front of the chair, placed her hand on the seat edge, reached out to touch the little girl's hair. The girl did not flinch, but she did not otherwise respond.

“I’m sorry,” she said, choking on the words. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I took what wasn’t mine to take. I – I never gave back, not once. I never thought of the cost…and _you_ paid the price.”

“Not all of it was your fault,” the girl said after a moment. “But it’s nice of you to say you’re sorry. Even if it’s just words.”

The woman could hardly speak around the lump in her throat. She understood what the girl meant.

“I know,” she finally managed to say, squeezing the tiny hand dwarfed by her own, soft in her callused palm. “I’ve done so much wrong…I can’t begin to make up for it. I’ll do right by you, I promise. From now on, I won’t live just for me any more. I'll live for _you_.”

The girl shrugged, then finally spoke again. “That’s all you can do. We’ll see if it’s enough.”

The girl's face was still obscured in shadow, but the older woman heard the sympathy in her voice. Instinctively, she leaned forward and gently pulled the girl into her arms.

“I – I love you. I love you so much,” she whispered.

After a few moments, the girl reached up and hugged her back. Her embrace was small and tentative, but she was anchored by the grown woman's arms, holding her so close that at a distance they might have appeared as one.

Then the little girl’s form began to shimmer, and the woman felt her dissolving, disappearing, as if they were merging together.

And all at once Mary was alone again.

She woke then, and found her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes damp, wet as the blood still dripping between her legs.

o~O~o

That morning, before sunrise, she found a small pond. Slowly, numbly, she cleaned up the blood and tissue, forcing herself not to look at it. The cold water forced clarity upon her thoughts, keeping her calm. Once she was clean, she lay on her still-flat stomach beside the pool as the sun rose and dried her off. The bleeding was still continuing, though at a slower pace – and wouldn't stop for the next several days, she soon learned – but she would deal with it later. She stared at her reflection in the icy water once it stilled.

She was thirty-six years old. She’d taken more from the world than she’d ever given back and yet hadn’t one thing she could call her own. Not even her name.

She wondered briefly about Alvarado, the mark who’d made her walk away. Was he still alive? Doubtful, considering the Crows' reputation. What was his daughter like, with or without her father’s influence? What legacy would she leave behind in turn?

_Better than mine, I hope_.

When she died, Mary realized, no matter whose hand it was by, the only mark she’d have left on the world would be the wounds her blades made in her victims’ bodies – small, clean and neat, a true professional’s work. Hardly noticeable. All of her marks had been remembered longer than she would ever be. And thanks to her, Mary thought as she choked back a sob, poor Roddy had left behind even less, having little more to show for all his hard work and love than a burnt-down house and a widow on the run.

And it was time at last for the world to give back in kind what Mary had taken from it.

She blamed no one for her circumstances, only herself. It mattered not how she ended up like this, only what she would do about it. She could only change the what, not the who or why.

And what she did was run.

o~O~o

She ran. She ran from her little farm, from Goldlake. She ran from the woods and the pool and the blood. She ran from the bodies she'd left behind, from the assassins to whom she'd promised her life and were now more than willing to make sure she kept that oath. She ran from the master who’d seen her as nothing more than property and treated her accordingly, who’d taken advantage of her and crossed boundaries that should never have been touched, who even now knew her darkest secret. She ran from the father who'd abandoned her and the mother who’d died the day he left, from broken promises and stillborn dreams, from the home and family she didn’t deserve and would never have, from the grave her husband should never have been buried in and the one she would not join him in – but should have.

And then she stepped into the path of a retired templar, the apostate mage to whom he was utterly devoted, and a former mercenary who was their sworn companion –

“I’m Ser Conan,” said the templar. “This is my partner, Arthur Doyle, and our friend Greg Lestrade.”

She nodded and smiled, holding her hand out to shake.

– and she stopped running. Stopped to do what she did best, what she'd been brought up to do – take one last life.

Her own.

Her parents had brought her into the world, taught her the basics of living, then left without teaching her about who she was. The Crows had claimed her, fed her, raised her, made and shaped her in their own image. Roddy, dear Roddy, had loved her for who he thought she was, a person who wasn’t defined by her past. Now, on her own for the first time in many years, meeting people who truly knew nothing of her, she began to wonder what it would be like to not be Mary-the-(former)-Antivan-Crow, or Mary-Morstan-Roderick’s-wife, or even Mary-whose-name-isn’t-hers.

Perhaps now was the time to try being just…her, just her own self. Just like the little girl in the hall, young and new and bursting with promise for a full life. And the first step was keeping the name she'd chosen, and the name of the man who’d given his life for her. The names that didn’t sum up who she was, but who she wanted to be.

And wasn’t that the better option, really?

Her final killing needed no weapons, only words. Three simple little words.

“I’m Mary Morstan,” she told them.

And with that simple introduction, another life was gone. She shed her old life, and the life before that one, and the life she’d had before all this began, and she tossed them over her shoulder without looking back when she answered the templar's next question.

“We’re going to be traveling for a while, us three,” he said. “No real destination in mind, just trying to see the world.” He smiled at her, and the genuine warmth in his face astonished and moved her. “Would you like to come with us?”

Three more words were all she needed.

She smiled back. “I’d love to.”

And while she didn’t know it then, with those simple words she’d made the best choice of her life.

 

_“Killing's easier than you think; you just have to forget how sweet the sugar is.”_

_~ Rosso,_ Monster

**Author's Note:**

>  _A few Spanish translation notes:_  
>  **Pendejo:** _“fool” or “dumbass”_  
>  **Carajita:** _A diminutive of the word_ carajo, _commonly used in the Dominican Republic and Venezuela to refer to annoying children_  
>  **Coño:** _Essentially the word for “cunt”, but considered less offensive than its English counterpart_  
>  **Cariña:** _“sweetheart”_  
>  **Lo siento:** _“I’m sorry”_  
>  **Dulzura:** _“honey” or “sweet thing”_  
>  **Concha tu madre:** _“The cunt of your mother”, alternately used as an expression of surprise or grief or an extremely disrespectful insult. (It seems to have the same connotations as “son of a bitch” in English.)_  
>  **Te voy a echar de menos:** _“I am going to miss you”_  
>  _I did my best with the information I could dig up (I wasn’t concerned with regional differences, of course), but if anyone with greater expertise would like to correct me on proper usage, by all means do so! Many thanks to the various sources online who know that when we learn a new language, the first things we want to learn are the dirty words, as well as those who know that we want to hear the romantic ones in a low, husky voice. ;)_
> 
> _If you'd told me a year, or even a few months ago, that I'd write something like this, I'd have scoffed. Sometimes I surprise even myself with all the new things these characters and their world are making me try. And yes, I did rather enjoy making Magnussen even more repulsive than he is in canon – even though I had to drink a glass of wine or two to finish some of his scenes. Rest assured, he_ will _get what's coming to him._  
>  _What fascinates me – and many others, I’m told – about canon!Mary is her lack of background. What – or who – is she running from? What happened to her to make her want to leave everything behind, including her given name? Maybe we’ll find out, maybe we won’t. I suspect her past wasn’t entirely of her choosing, either. We shall see._  
>  _FYI, for the Dragon Age fans – Mary finding her new name in the Haven graveyard was inspired by the little side trip you can make there (after completing the Sacred Ashes quest) to read funny messages from the dev team. Check it out if you haven't already!_  
>  _Thank you to everyone who's come along with me on this journey, including my dear Stef (always), OtakuElf (of course), birdzilla, Luoryuu, myeerah, and every single guest I would happily thank personally if I could. No matter how long I go between updates or their length, I’m always delighted to see that a new reader has enjoyed something I’ve written, or a returning one continuing to show their appreciation. You’re all wonderful and make everything worthwhile. :)_


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